I was in the waiting room of a doctor’s office this week when a pharmaceutical representative came in, triggering memories of my father. I only saw the backside of this gentleman as I did not notice him until he had pulled his trolley of samples up to one of the windows of the office personnel, and I went in shortly thereafter. From the backside he struck me as very fashionably dressed. His clothes appeared relatively new and of the current fashion. To me, the current fad in men’s sports coats and suit jackets always appears as if they had borrowed them from a person slightly smaller in stature than themselves, especially so with the sports coats. But he was styling and profiling. Then I noticed his shoes, a half boot with almost a construction worker’s shoe sensibility about them. What really drew my attention, however, was how beat up they appeared. I would wager a goodly number of greenbacks that they had never seen shoe polish or a buffing cloth.
My father spent 10 or so years in the Navy. After the Navy he worked for 20 years as a technical representative for an aerospace company, working with the US Navy and various other militaries around the globe. It is probably from these experiences that he developed his passion of well-cared-for shoes being an essential part of a gentleman’s wardrobe. He always kept several pairs of winged tip oxfords, in various colors, and invariably polished to perfection. As kids it was a quick way to earn a few coins by offering to polish his shoes. I firmly believe that he was constitutionally incapable of passing by a shoe shine stand – yes, there used to be such things – without utilizing their services.
Before we went to church or other locale that required us to be nicely dressed, there was a brief but thorough inspection of our accoutrements. If our shoes did not pass muster, he would unfailingly comment, “Looks like your clothes are throwing a party, but your shoes did not get the invitation.” My father was a man with few, but often used jokes, jabs, and sarcastic comments.
It is different now days, but after we were old enough to go to school, we always wore a sports coat and tie to church . Saturday nights, at times, involved shoe polishing in anticipation of Sunday church services. I have internalized his admonitions and his shoe fetish, and I generally keep my cowboy boots and penny loafers well polished.
As I sat there, inspecting the equipage of the pharmaceutical rep, I heard my father’s voice in my head, “Looks like his clothes are throwing a party, but he forgot to invite his shoes!” “The bells, the bells,” screamed Quasimodo.
And so it goes.